Let me help you with your baggage
by Nova Delphine
Summary: Chloe and Chlollie drabbles from Season 9.


So, my computer had a near death experience. I'm usually pretty good about backing everything up on an external hard drive, but I've been pretty lazy about it lately and, suffice it to say, that this traumatizing ordeal was just the kick in the pants I needed to launch a massive file clean up.

One of the results of this tediously long chore is that I found a bunch of drabbl-ish writing that I'd forgotten about. Most of the one-shots are just random ideas that never evolved into anything more, but I found when I read them all together, I kind of liked what they became.

So seeing as I haven't posted anything in forever, I figured I'd offer up my crack at drabbles. Usually, I'm really long-winded with my writing and it was strange to review these and find them to be more succinct and to the point. Bit of a departure for me. They're all based on Season Nine events and, naturally, are Chloe/Chlollie focused. Lois and Mia are the only ones who get to make cameos. I'll warn that some are very tied to canon, while others go a bit off into la-la land. Ultimately, though, they all seem to make sense... I think... I hope.

In any case, I hope people enjoy them and I disclaim. Not my characters.

* * *

**Truth seeker, secret keeper**

Ever since she was old enough to understand them, secrets have been her currency, and whether she was exposing them or keeping them, she's always found comfort in the control they give her; how they dull the burn of questions that weren't so easily answered.

_Why do mothers leave their daughters? Why don't farm boys fall for the girls next door?_

She needs truth so she can forget all those monumental times when she lacked it; times when what she didn't know left her crying herself to sleep. Times when what she didn't understand lead to mistakes she couldn't fix and people she can't get back.

She peels mysteries apart because she's learned that if she pushes hard enough and digs deep enough, she'll know things that are real and can do things that are _right_. For her, it's the only peace of mind that matters.

* * *

**No cream, hold the sugar**

"I can't believe he's… gone."

The way Lois whispers the words – so horrified and pained and un-Lois-like – wrecks something inside of her that she'd already given up for dead.

Staring across the Talon apartment's kitchen table, she watches the tears slide down her cousin's shocked face and can't believe she just served up the news of Jimmy's death over morning coffee.

"I'm sorry to tell you like this," she whispers back. "I just… needed you to know."

It's a lie. Kind of. She would never let Lois find out from anybody else, but her real reason for blurting out the loss is selfish. She needs her cousin – who doesn't know the whole story – to hug her and cry with her and let her mourn as if she didn't help the tragedy happen.

"I'm the one who's sorry," Lois chokes out as she reaches over and grabs her hand in a grip that shakes. "I should have been here for you, I should have –"

"Don't," she shushes. "You've got nothing to apologize for."

Lois nods unsteadily. "I just hate that this happened to him."

"Me too," she murmurs, swallowing the lump in her throat that tastes like guilt.

It's not working. Her hope had been to tell Lois and get a few moments to feel the pain without the crushing weight of knowing it's her fault, but as she clings to her cousin's hand – keeping the secrets that killed Jimmy alive – it feels like her biggest betrayal yet.

"What the hell happened here?" Lois wonders brokenly. "Jimmy's… dead, Clark's missing and Ollie…"

Watery green eyes snap into focus when the other woman's words trail off. "What about Oliver?"

"He's…" Lois shakes her head angrily. "He's cage fighting. Can you believe that? He's drunk and he's letting people pound the shit outta him for fun."

"You've actually seen him?" She breathes.

"I tried to talk to him," Lois confesses weakly, "but it didn't do any good. He just… he doesn't even care."

She nods slowly as her hand slides away from Lois. "He cares, just not about himself."

* * *

**You fall, I follow**

The first thing she learns about the fleet of super computers Emil pilfered for her is that They. Can. Do. _Anything_.

The second thing she learns is that when she's using the machines to track down her disbanded teammates, she gets so lost in the effort that her guilt over Jimmy fades to the background and she's able to breathe. The one time she stops long enough to think about this, her stomach turns and she's suddenly throwing up in a wastebasket.

Bart's the easiest to find because he's not really trying to hide. Eager, caring and generous, the team's youngest member wants to be part of something and has never been shy about it. She imagines him zipping around the globe, hitting on girls with a grin he doesn't really feel and scarfing down food he'd rather share. She knows he's just waiting to be called back. She feels it in her bones.

Pinpointing the others takes more work, but she finds their bread crumbs before long and it's no surprise that Oliver's the one leaving the messiest trail. While Victor, AC and Dinah pop up on her radar in subtle ways, it's their leader's bar fights and booze tabs that keep her on her toes; appalled every time she catches up with him, and terrified each time he vanishes again.

When his path to self-destruction leads him back to Metropolis, there's no hesitation on her part. For two days straight, she works around the clock to orchestrate the installation of a dozen surveillance cameras, making it impossible for him to so much as hiccup without her getting an alert.

She knows she's toeing amorality, but really, Oliver's the one who went crazy first.

She's just keeping up.

* * *

**Ashes to ashes**

Metropolis is a city hardwired for spying. Traffic cams, street cams, store cams, security cams… Endless feeds of sight and sound that blanket every inch of the urban core, forming a perfectly calibrated network that's ripe for the picking by anyone with some know how and spare time. She has plenty of both.

That's why it takes her longer to drive across town than it does to figure what's going on when the program she designed to keep an eye on Oliver registers a strange heat signature.

By the time she arrives at the lonely alley, the only thing beckoning her forward is a pile of ash that smells like expensive scotch, and even though she tries not to think morbid thoughts, she can't seem to see the charred, leather carcass as anything other than dead. Kicking the dying embers listlessly, her boot knocks into something small that skitters dully on the pavement, so she crouches down and fishes the little object out of the soot. It's metal; warped and melted and when she places it in her palm for closer inspection, it leaves a faint black stain against her skin.

_One of the braces that held darts against his arm, maybe? The zipper from his vest? _

Her face tightens into a frown and her free hand dives forward, pawing through the warm remains. It's mostly paranoia, but she's witnessed enough impossibles to know that leaving evidence behind means giving someone else the chance to find it. When she's finally convinced there's nothing left and the ashes are good and destroyed, she straightens stiffly and pockets her burnt collection; her mind already mapping out how she's going to break into the Clocktower and gather up any gear that's still sheltered in his locker.

A few blocks over, a garbage can crashes loudly and muttered words skate across the chilled air. Breathing deep, she slips her hand into her bag and grips her gun; her whole body instantly aware of the fact that she's spent too much time alone in a less than forgiving neighbourhood.

After all, there's one less hero protecting the streets tonight.

* * *

**Interventionism on acid**

"Well?"

Simple as it may be, her question is a loaded one and she watches as the three troubled faces framed in windows on her monitor grow even wearier.

Victor's the first to sigh uncomfortably. "I don't know, Chloe. This plan seems a little…"

"Extreme," Dinah cuts in sharply.

"I was gonna say crazy," Bart mumbles, unable to lift his eyes and look into the camera.

Her hands ball into tight fists as their doubt picks at the irritation just under her skin that's been at a constant boil these past few weeks.

"He tried to kill himself," she spits, frustrated that they aren't seeing the severity of the situation. "He took that step away from the podium cause he thought it would blow. In my books, that warrants something _extreme_."

None of them will meet her glare and she gets the distinct impression that Oliver isn't the only one they're fearful for anymore.

"Look," she presses, forcing the word past her lips as calmly as possible. "I know what I'm proposing is out there, but a regular intervention isn't gonna cut it. If we don't push him, we're going to lose him."

"What if this _shove_ of yours is too much?" Dinah snaps. "What happens if we put him through hell and he can't take it?"

"He can take it," she growls back without hesitation.

Bart's fidgeting frame goes strangely still and he's finally looking at her, his head nodding decisively.

"I'm in," he whispers. "I trust you Tower, I'll do it."

His faith seals it for the others and she wants to feel relief, but it never comes. What she gets instead is a creeping voice in the back of her brain that whispers Davis Bloome's name, reminding her how undeniably certain she'd been about saving him.

"It's going to work," she vows solemnly.

The others think she's making them a promise, but really, it's a pledge she's swearing to herself.

* * *

**Broken heart to broken heart**

"Can I ask you something?"

She turns away from her computer terminal, surprised. They'd been working in independent silence for the past two hours and, frankly, she kind of forgot he was even there.

"Sure," she answers, furrowing her brows curiously.

At her agreement, Oliver abandons the piles of papers his sifting through and pushes himself away from the desk, watching her anxiously. He opens his mouth to say something, but then stops and reconsiders. He tries again, but gets the same result.

She frowns at the out-of-character fumbling. "Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

He heaves a frustrated sigh at her teasing, but he's no closer to finding his voice.

"Seriously," she prompts, "this only works if you say _something_."

He eyes her critically and she just stares back expectantly, mutual irritation brewing between them.

"Lois and Clark," he finally blurts out. "Thoughts?"

Her brows shoot up to her hairline. "You want to know what I think about Lois and Clark? Like, as a couple?"

He shrugs as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

She scoffs, loudly. "Shouldn't I be braiding your hair for this heart to heart?"

The second the snarky little jab is out there, she regrets it; seeing the way it makes his dark eyes shutter.

"Forget I said anything," he mutters, going back to the papers in front of him.

She winces at her own callousness and remembers a time when she used to be better at these kinds of talks. "Sorry."

His attention stays firmly on the documents he's madly shuffling and she knows her apology's been denied. Sighing warily, she trudges across the space that separates them and grabs a second chair, circling the desk to take a seat next to him.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, staring at him as he continues to ignore her. "I just don't know why you want to do this to yourself."

His hands stop moving and he straightens at her words, his head turning just enough to eye her.

"Do what?" He asks, feigning obliviousness. "I just want your opinion."

She purses her lips and hopes for both their sakes that he doesn't _really _believe she could ever be suckered by such a pathetic lie. Thing is though, she's already got one strike against her in this conversation, so she clamps down on the urge to call bullshit.

"It's not like I have much to say," she hedges. "Lois and I may live together, but we barely get to see each other and as for Clark…"

She lets her best friend's name hang in the air, reluctant to put their fractured relationship into actual words.

"You don't have to put a disclaimer on it," he notes dryly, finally turning to face her fully. "Just tell me what you think."

She worries her bottom lip before deciding that telling him the truth is her only option.

"When Clark was with Lana, he used to talk about her _all _the time," she begins slowly, her gaze drifting away from him. "He was always worried about her, or mad at her, or confused, insecure, blah, blah, blah."

Oliver says nothing, but she can feel the _so what? _rolling off him.

She makes her eyes slide back to his. "He doesn't talk about Lois – not like that. He doesn't need advice or reassurance or a sounding board. He's sure of her and of them."

She watches as Oliver nods slowly, taking in what she's saying carefully.

"What about Lois?" He murmurs quietly.

She smirks gently. "Ever since we were little, Lois has always been all _get outta my way or get run over_. Guys were no exception to that."

He smiles softly, if only a little sadly.

"With Clark though," she continues, shifting in her seat, "she… slows down and stops to look both ways."

"She doesn't want to mess things up," Oliver finishes lowly.

"Yeah," she breathes.

He's nodding absently to himself again, so she just waits; letting him absorb the information on his own.

"I guess I already knew that," he eventually admits.

"Why'd you ask then?" She questions, her tone not unkind, just genuinely curious.

His answering smile is deprecating and all too aware. "What can I say? I'm a masochist."

She doesn't try to correct him.

* * *

**Allied**

Grimacing, she tries – and fails – to lift her arm to the keyboard perched on the terminal, weirdly fascinated by her inability to do so. Clearly, flesh wounds weren't fatal, but as far as pain in the ass went, they were seriously underrated.

Steeling herself for the burning sensation the effort keeps causing, she bites her lip and tries again, wondering absently how long she's going to be basically down an arm, and what kind of impact that's going to have on her productivity.

She's so preoccupied that she doesn't hear him enter and ends up spinning around in surprise when he clears his throat in the quiet Watchtower.

"Sorry," he offers uncomfortably, "didn't mean to scare you."

"No, no, it's fine," she assures him, careful not to mention that her jumpiness is due to the unscheduled visit his former mentor paid her. "Just wasn't paying attention, that's all."

His eyes travel her frame from head to toe, searching anxiously.

"He nicked my shoulder," she reveals, waving her good hand at the injury, knowing that's what he's looking for. "Apparently I have awesome reflexes. Who knew?"

He stares at her shoulder intently, as if he can see the gash separating her skin despite its hiding place under both a bandage and her shirt.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes lowly, each word ashamed.

"It's okay," she promises, taking a few tentative steps forward.

"It's not okay," he scoffs, shaking his head. "You, Lois, Mia, you could've been – "

"How's Mia?" She interrupts.

Her question catches him off-guard and he surfaces from his guilt to stare at her with lowered brows.

"What did she have to say about your alter ego?" She prompts again, silently willing him to take this little step away from the proverbial ledge she knows he wants to go hang out on.

He just watches her curiously, so she gives him an encouraging nod. When he finally reaches up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, letting out a slow breath, she exhales too.

"She was mad," he finally answers with a shrug, "but, of course, she was more upset that I kept a secret from her than she was about nearly dying."

She can't help but grin. "Girl after my own heart."

He lets out a hollow chuckle and nods in ready agreement.

"So, she's gonna stick around?" She checks as she leans back to the terminal and uses her one hand to initiate a couple of routine monitoring programs.

"Seems that way," he replies, but his attention is suddenly focused on her limited typing. "Do you need some help?"

_Of course not_ is the automatic answer she hears in her head.

"You don't have to," she says instead.

He crosses the space between them in a few strides and when her hand falls away from the keyboard, he settles his own in its place.

"Least I can do," he tells her, staring guiltily at her shoulder.

She waits until his gaze moves from her injury to her eyes and then offers him a smirk.

"My own little secretary," she muses.

"Uh, _executive assistant_, thank you very much," he mutters, finally cracking a small smile of his own.

* * *

**Take a left at Memory Lane**

"So, Stuart Campbell checked _himself_ outta here?"

She climbs out of Oliver's car and slams the door behind her, taking a moment to sweep her eyes over Lakecrest Rehabilitation Centre's manicured property before looking at him over the vehicle's roof.

"Apparently," she answers.

His expression turns sceptical, "and he was able to do that despite the big hole in the back of his head?"

She nods sombrely. "You can see why I'm intrigued by this."

"Hmm," he grunts in agreement, hitting the car's automatic locks.

After Stuart's brutal dismissal from Tess Mercer's employ, she'd taken it upon herself to make sure the young man landed into suitable long term care. She'd researched appropriate facilities and Lakecrest had emerged as the clear frontrunner, not only because of its stellar reputation, but also because of its remote location outside of Metropolis. Thanks to some creative hacking, she'd secured the necessary referrals and within days, a still comatose Stuart had been transferred safely to the centre, where she'd assumed he'd remain out of sight and out of any more danger. Obviously, she'd assumed wrong.

"So, what's the plan?" Oliver asks casually as they trek across the facility's parking lot, making their way towards the main entrance.

Reaching into the bag bouncing at her hip, she pulls out a thick file. "We're conducting a study on traumatic brain injuries. Mr. Campbell has recently volunteered to be one of our subjects and we're here to collect his files."

Oliver's head swivels towards her, looking down at her doubtfully. "We are?"

"Yes," she nods, pulling forged documents out of her folder along with two particularly authentic looking ID badges. "We've got a grant with Met U and Dr. Emil Hamilton is our primary consultant."

"Naturally," Oliver deadpans, accepting the badge she shoves towards him and staring at his picture next to the name _Ryan Edwards._

"Given that I'm the one who's been reading up on this, I'll do the talking," she continues sternly, clipping her badge onto her jacket.

He's staring at her again.

"You want to field any questions they may have about our program?" She drawls pointedly.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "How much time did you spend on this?"

She pauses, surprised by the question. "Why?"

"Just seems overly complicated, that's all," he notes with a shrug before he takes the steps two at a time and reaches forward to pull the door open for her.

She bristles at the comment, her chin jutting as she passes by him and into the centre's foyer. "What's your bright idea? Tell them the truth? Somehow that doesn't seem easier. Or effective."

He follows after her, ready to volley back when his eyes catch on something up ahead and instead of retorting, he breaks into a wide grin.

"What?" She hisses curiously, her gaze automatically following his to find a young woman working at the reception desk. Her confusion immediately morphs to disgust and her head snaps back to level him with an icy glare.

"Uh-uh, no way," she states darkly, her finger wagging at him threateningly. "We're not gonna to be able to use the cover if you're Casanova routine crashes and burns!"

He scoffs, waltzing away from her before she can stop him. "Crash and burn? Please."

She's powerless to do anything but screech under her breath and hang back as he approaches the desk with a notable swagger. Right away, the receptionist notices him and freezes, her cheeks colouring as he leans casually into the counter.

She can't hear what either is saying, but she has eyes and can tell from the young woman's smiles and giggles that the Queen charm is not only in effect, but working overtime. Suddenly, the receptionist takes an appraising look over her shoulder and then leans down to the file cabinet running under the desk, straightening moments later with a manila folder clutched in her hands. There's a moment where she seems to hesitate, but Oliver sends her a blinding smile and she's handing him the file without any further prompting.

"You have got to be kidding me," Chloe mutters in disbelief, her head shaking as Oliver and the woman exchange a few final pleasantries before he pushes away from the desk and saunters back, wearing a smirk that really just says it all.

Eyes rolling, she pivots on her heel and heads for the door, shouldering it roughly out of her way. Once outside, he catches up to her easily and presents the file to her with a flourish.

"Un-freakin-believable," she sneers, snatching the folder away from him and shoving it into her bag with the now useless pile of phony paperwork.

"Thanks," he grins as they make for the parking lot.

"Not a compliment," she corrects acidly.

"Why not?" He questions innocently. "It worked. What's your problem?"

"I'm lamenting my wasted time," she fires back. "Could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd known the staff here would be so _accommodating_."

He simply laughs and her eyes widen.

"It's not funny," she barks. "That woman just handed over confidential medical records cause you gave her a wink and a smile!"

"You're complaining that we got what we wanted?" He checks mildly.

She lets out an aggravated sigh. "What I am is appalled. Being impressed with _you_ is no reason to chuck professionalism out the window."

"Hypocrite," he mutters with a sigh of his own.

She immediately jerks to a halt. "Excuse-me?"

His head tilts at the challenge in her voice and he takes a step towards her that makes their height difference way too obvious and has her feeling just a little too crowded.

"_Wow_," he says lightly, the word a little high and breathy. "_I__n person, he is really… wow_."

She recoils at the familiar statement, sputtering. "Clark told you?"

"He didn't have to," he smirks. "You're not as subtle as you like to think."

Her mouth drops open and her mind races back to that day in the Kent barn. He'd been out of ear-shot, she was sure of it. There was no way he could have heard her.

"Don't look so devastated," he teases, backing away in the direction of the car. "I was flattered."

She's blushing and she hates it.

* * *

**Let me help you with your baggage**

Given all the time she spent outfitting the Watchtower with state of the art equipment, it really pisses her off that it's standing in ruins. How their latest fight managed to end up on her turf is beyond her, but Icicle needed to go down and, apparently, that had to happen at great expense to her setup.

The sound of the double doors swinging open interrupts her grim survey of the destruction and she looks up to see Oliver strolling in; brandishing a broom.

"Are you kidding me?" She smiles, the words spilling out with her disbelief.

He gives the broom a little twirl and smiles right back at her. "You spent all last night at dinner whining about the mess you were gonna have to clean, so I figured you could use the help."

She narrows her eyes and smirks. "Do you even know how to use one of those?"

Eyebrow cocked, he swings the broom out and the bristled end catches her behind in a reprimanding spank. "Bossy thing that you are I'm sure you'll have me learned in no time."

She takes a step forward, ready to explain that the _strategic direction_ she so graciously bestows is not _bossiness_, when a loud crunch sounds and she looks down to find Jimmy's smiling face staring up at her from under her boot.

She lifts her foot gingerly, trying not to disturb anymore of the splintered glass that's marring her husband's bright grin and it strikes her how much this moment sums up everything that happened between her and Jimmy; how her secrets – her life – left him broken.

"Here."

Aching, she looks up with blurry eyes to find Oliver standing right in front of her, pushing the broom into her shaking hands. Too confused to question, she grasps the long handle tightly and watches as he bends down to carefully pick up Jimmy's ruined portrait.

Balancing the banged up frame between his large hands, he flips the whole thing over and lets the shards sprinkle to the floor; their soft crashes echoing through the still tower. Righting the picture, he delicately dislodges the last two stubborn pieces and when he's finally satisfied, he holds the frame out to her.

She trades him back the broom and takes the salvaged photograph into her arms.

"Thanks," she whispers.

Eyes studying her, he shrugs. "No problem."

There's a warmth creeping into her chest and it's dissolving the ache just enough that she can breathe normally again. Meeting his gaze, she smiles a little and nods at the broom.

"You're not really going to clean, are you?" She asks lightly.

"God no," he admits with a hearty chuckle. "I know some people. They'll be here in an hour."

The giggle that bursts out of her is short, but cathartic.

* * *

**Little girls found**

The small shop bustles around them, full of people and conversation and the intoxicating smell of fresh coffee, but between her and Mia, the silence is deafening.

She's not sure why Oliver thought this would be a good idea. He'd claimed that his protégé was in need of some "girl talk" and had enlisted her despite her warnings that she'd just prove woefully inept. After all, she'd been the girl in high school who'd kept guys for company – and not in the steaming up back seats of cars kind of way.

Still, Oliver had asked so here she was; trying to figure out what kind of common ground might exist between Mia Dearden and herself.

Reaching forward to retrieve her oversized mug, she takes a long pull and lets the liquid scorch a path down her throat as she watches her companion over the rim. Even with her face partially hidden behind her dark hair, she can see the way Mia stares through the picture window they're seated next to; intently studying a group of laughing girls as they make their way down the sidewalk.

Noticing the Met U sweatshirt one of the passing girls wears, a conversation finally blooms in her mind.

"Any interest in going to school?" She asks as she leans forward and places her mug on the bistro table that separates them.

Snapping out of her fog, Mia turns surprised eyes towards her. "What?"

"School," she repeats. "I was wondering if you'd given any thought to going to school."

The brunette's brow arches doubtfully. "Yeah, I'm not much of a student."

"Well, you're a pretty quick learner from what Oliver tells me," she offers.

The young girl smirks just a little. "Training isn't like school."

"I suppose its kinda apples and oranges," she admits, "but if you worked _half_ as hard at school as you do when you train, you'd be sailing."

"Maybe if you have the brains to begin with," Mia refutes, her eyes drifting back to the window.

She feels a frown tug on her features. "You know, you don't strike me as the brainless type. Far from it, actually."

Mia's gaze swivels back slowly, her dark eyes suddenly curious. "How would I ever get in?"

Thrilled by the tentative interest, she smiles hugely. "You're kidding right? One call from Ollie and they'll name a school after you."

"I can't ask him to do that," Mia grimaces, "he's already done a lot for me, I couldn't ask for something else."

"It's not like you'd be asking for something frivolous," she points out. "School can be a really good thing and Oliver took you under his wing cause he wants the best for you. He's not going to mind you registering for some classes."

The younger woman starts practically chewing her lip off, her eyes sparking anxiously. "What if I'm no good at it?"

"Then you can pack it in," she answers simply. "There's no harm in trying, though. Who knows? You might end up loving it."

"I wouldn't even know what to take," Mia murmurs thoughtfully.

Her smile warms reassuringly. "Why don't we go pick up a course catalogue at Met U? You could probably get some ideas in there."

"Yeah?" Mia checks, her face lighting up. "You don't mind?"

"Course not," she grins back.

A bright smile spreads across the dark haired girl's face and its appearance makes her heart flip with pride, pleased that she put it there.

"This is… exciting!" Mia gushes with a delighted little giggle, finally looking every inch her young age. "It's just, I never considered school before, cause, well… But now…"

The brunette pauses abruptly. "Would you be there? When I ask Oliver?"

Surprised, she sits back a bit, but nods her head anyway. "Sure, if you'd like that."

"It's just, I know he'll say yes if he knows you think it's a good idea," Mia explains.

She chuckles doubtfully. "I'm flattered that you think my powers of persuasion are that awesome, but Ollie's gonna do this for you, not me."

Mia's head tilts curiously. "When he finds out you suggested this, I'm gonna be signed up for, like, ten Ivy League schools."

She scoffs. "Again, you're giving me too much credit."

Mia's eyes narrow before her gaze slides back to the window, a knowing smile on her face. "Right. Keep telling yourself that."

Her heart suddenly pounding in her ears, she reaches for her mug again and tries not to notice the way her hand trembles as she swallows the caffeine back greedily.

* * *

**Bring the big guns **

She hasn't seen or spoken to him in a week, not since he'd surprised her at the rail yard with the news that he'd moved her cache of weapons for safe-keeping and had no plans to tell her where that safe place was. At first, she didn't really believe he was going to keep her in the dark, but then he'd walked away without giving her so much as a hint, so she'd spent the past week doing the only thing her pride would allow; ignoring him at all costs.

Unfortunately, though, her avoidance never got the chance to pack much of a punch because he hadn't tried to reach her. Not once.

"Miss Sullivan?"

Startled from her thoughts, she looks up to find Oliver's assistant watching her expectantly.

"Mr. Queen will see you now," the young woman indicates, gesturing to the glass enclosed space from which Oliver rules his empire.

Nodding, she stands slowly and grabs her purse, her grip tightening around the thumb drive hidden in the palm of her hand.

"Thanks," she murmurs as she passes the perfectly-polished assistant and approaches the double doors.

She had thought that her stubborn streak would be more than a match for his, but when she woke up this morning – day eight – she realized that she was going to have to wave a white flag if she was ever going to get the stockpile's coordinates. Otherwise, she was going to be left holding an empty bag if the world ended up going to hell.

Trying to force aside the feeling of the receptionist's curious eyes on her back, she draws in a deep breath and pushes her way into the inner sanctum.

She finds him at his desk, reclining slightly in his chair and fully immersed in his Captain of Industry façade. When he doesn't offer her any kind of greeting and, instead, watches her through narrowed eyes, it strikes her that she's never really seen him like this. Sure, she'd been in the office once or twice before and she'd seen a good sampling of the sharply-cut suits, but the visits had always been after hours and the suits had always been rumpled from busy days; the ties always pulled loose. She's never really been on the receiving end of _Oliver Queen, CEO_ and she realizes that's because he's always affected a less guarded, more genuine persona with her. What he is now feels foreign and it's intimidating in a way she's never experienced.

Decidedly wary, she stops somewhere between the door and the desk, hesitant to approach any further given the way he's tracking her every move suspiciously. Feeling awkward, she wishes he would say something, but his only acknowledgment is to quirk a brow at her irreverently.

The arrogance etched in his features jolts something inside of her and forces her feet forward. She stalks over to his desk and slams the thumb drive onto the smooth surface when she finally gets there.

"This is everything I have on the Kandorians," she announces lowly, sliding the tiny device towards him meaningfully. "You win."

She watches his dark eyes drop from her to the thumb drive, and then back again.

"Didn't realize we were in competition," he notes mildly, but he looks angrier now than he did when she first entered.

The hostility both throws her and makes her stiffen defensively. "You didn't like being out of the loop, so this is me laying down my cards."

He lets out a tense bark of laughter and shakes his head at her in disbelief. "You really want those weapons, don't you? It kills you that I moved them from right under your nose."

"Hey!" She snaps. "Remember the part where the evil alien overlord is working his ass off to enslave the entire planet? I'm kinda interested in having a defense or two if that goes down!"

He's out of his chair and around his desk so fast that she trips a little in her haste to back up.

"I wanna know why," he bites out. "You know I wouldn't have told you no, but you stole the money anyways. Why?"

She blinks at the hurt in his voice, surprised that she can hear it so clearly. "I couldn't risk anyone knowing – "

"Bullshit," he interrupts. "If you needed my money to get the weapons, then you should have brought me in on the plan."

"I did what I had to," she counters hotly. "We need to be ready for the worst and I made sure that we are."

"You practically handed us over to Tess Mercer," he growls. "Gift wrapped, no less."

Her chest tightens painfully at the reminder of her error; her heart beating faster at the thought of the screw up.

"Fine," she spits out, frustrated and angry with him and herself. "I'm sorry, okay? I messed up. Are you happy now?"

The tension in the air thickens to the point that it's suffocating and when he won't look at her anymore, she realizes her words just had the opposite effect of what she was going for.

"Don't give me an apology when what you really want is to tell me to fuck off," he mutters as he moves back to his desk and throws open one of the drawers, hauling out a pen and pad of paper.

His actions startle her, leaving her to wonder what's happening as he begins writing furiously. A few beats pass where the scratch of pen to page is the only sound in the room and then suddenly, he stops and chucks the ballpoint aside, tearing a lone sheet of paper free.

"Here," he insists coldly, folding the sheet in half and thrusting it at her. "It's all there, right down to the last arrow."

The sudden surrender stuns her further and she can only stare at the white paper gripped in his outstretched hand.

"C'mon," he urges impatiently, shaking the page at her. "It's what you want so take it."

His words carry a horrible sense of finality and she's now painfully aware that getting what she wants is going to cost her something else entirely. Instinctively, she jams her shaking hands into her pockets and takes a measured step back.

"You're going to hate me if I take that," she tells him, her eyes downcast.

Everything in the office seems to grind to a halt and whatever's happening between them is tipping back and forth; a breath away from falling one way or the other.

"I don't hate you," he mumbles, the hand holding the paper dropping to his side while the other rakes itself through his hair. "That's kind of the problem."

She can't decide if he means that in a good or bad way, so she just stays still.

"We're supposed to be a team," he tells her slowly, crossing the space between them and taking hold of her wrist; lifting her arm so he can press the paper into her hand. "That means you let me in on the plays, otherwise, it's never going to work."

His hand is hot against her skin and the feeling's distracting.

"I'm out of practice," she mumbles, having to crane her neck to meet his eyes because he's standing so much closer now. "I mean, with the team thing. I'm out of practice."

She isn't entirely sure what she's trying to say, but the words seem to mean something to him, given the way his eyes slide closed and he leans down to press his forehead to hers.

"I know," he whispers.

Guilt and regret are suddenly pounding through her veins, making her heart throb in a way she doesn't want to admit.

"I'm sorry," she chokes; horrified that she's about to cry.

The sob clawing at her throat dies when his lips find hers, the kiss both urgent and understanding.

* * *

**Playing house**

"Head's up!"

Her fingers freeze over the keyboard and her eyes fly to the catwalk that rings around the Watchtower just in time to see the arrow slice across the room and hit the target dead on.

Safely seated at her desk, she's a long way away from the trajectory the arrow travelled, so she's instantly suspicious that the hollered warning had nothing to do with keeping her out of the way and everything to do with garnering her attention.

Cutting her eyes back to the catwalk, she watches him lean casually into the railing and when his gaze moves from his perfect bullseye to her, the boyish grin that spreads across his face is all the confirmation she needs to know she's right.

"Nothing but net," he hoots proudly and she rolls her eyes.

Ever since he dragged the target into her tower, he'd taken to putting himself through his drills while she worked. He'd barely been at it a week before the space's limitations started to show, but rather than relocate, he'd launched into the trick shooting; working every strange angle the Watchtower had to offer.

This new penchant for practicing in her tower is ridiculous. She knows full-well that he went to great lengths – not to mention spent big dollars – to design and build the training facility of his dreams in his anonymous warehouse across town. Over there he has all the room in the world, actual equipment and, most importantly, there's zero risk to her or her precious machines. His conscious choice to move into her domain is foolish, annoying and a waste.

She never once considers asking him to leave.

* * *

**Hit and run **

She answers her phone without glancing at the caller display. "Go for Sullivan."

"I need a date."

Frowning, she pulls the cell away from her ear and checks the screen after all. It reads _Emerald Archer_ just like she expected, so she lifts the phone again. "I have it on good authority that eHarmony will find you a match based on 29 dimensions of compatibility."

He chuckles and even though she knows he's up to something, she smiles.

"Let me re-phrase," he drawls. "I need _you _to be my date."

His emphasis on _you_ makes her eyebrows arch, but she decides to ignore it. "Mia makes for much nicer arm candy. See if she's free."

"You're not even going to ask what I need the date for?"

"Why?" She tosses back as she heads for one of her computers. "It's not like the _where_ is gonna change my stance."

"It's a fundraising gala for Met Gen," he explains anyway. "Very noble cause."

"Sounds swanky," she murmurs as she traps her phone between her ear and shoulder, freeing up her hands for actual work. "Don't let any creepy old men hit on Mia. The last thing you need is a front page story about your date breaking some rich pervert's nose."

He chuckles again and she can see her answering grin in the computer's monitor.

"I need a _date_," he corrects, "not jail bait."

His surprising persistence has her teeth biting the inside of her cheek. "You wouldn't be better off with me; I get mistaken for jail bait all the time. It's cause I'm short."

"Then bring your ID," he volleys.

She puffs out a breath. "Are you going to make me say _no _flat out?"

"You can say no all you want," he replies plainly, "doesn't change the fact that I'm on my way to get you."

The line's suddenly dead and it takes her a long moment to realize he's hung up on her.

Thinking of his parting words, she abandons her humming computer and heads straight for her desk where her purse and coat are waiting. Hurrying across the room, she hauls open the double doors and shrieks when she runs right into him.

"Really?" He laughs while she clutches her chest in shock. "You were gonna make a run for it?"

"You were out here the whole time, weren't you?" She accuses, forcing her composure.

"Maybe," he shrugs and that's when she notices the tux that he fills out so nicely.

She leans into the door frame with a sigh and looks up at him from under her lashes. He just grins.

"If this is the part where you tell me you have nothing to wear – " he pauses and hands her a garment bag she hadn't seen, "– don't."

* * *

**A morning after**

Waking slowly, she opens her eyes to find Ollie watching her from across the room.

"Hey," he greets with a lazy smile and rough voice.

She's about to return both the 'hey' and the smile when she registers the bandage taped across his chest; the white gauze stained with just enough blood to form a Z pattern.

"You're awake," she stutters as she bolts upright, the sudden movement shocking her stiff muscles and making it painfully obvious that the chair she'd used as a make-shift bed had been a bad idea.

Oliver's leisurely grin stays in place, "and now you are too."

Her head tilts curiously at the slight slur in his words and the way his smile suggests that third-degree burns only tickle a little.

"I'll get Emil," she announces worriedly, drawing herself up.

"No worries," he dismisses, lifting a hand and waving it absently. "He's already been here. Said I'll live."

The pieces click in her head and she's smiling despite herself. "Somebody got the good morphine, huh?"

In his medically-induced haze, his agreeing nod is seriously exaggerated. "I don't care what the after school specials say, drugs are _awesome_."

She chuckles ruefully and moves to the side of his gurney. "Given the circumstances, I'll let you have that one. Just do us both a favour and don't get too attached to the high, okay?"

"You got it," he promises, giving her an uncoordinated wink and gun.

She shakes her head indulgently and lets her eyes roam over him, finding his pale skin and shadowed eyes a little unnerving.

"How long have you been awake?" She asks softly.

"A little while. Not very long," he answers vaguely, his hand drifting across the starched sheet to reach for hers.

Her arm moves automatically and her fingers quickly lace with his. "I can't believe Emil didn't wake me up."

"I told him not to," he reveals as he pulls her hand towards his mouth and begins pressing kisses along her knuckles. "You looked so tired."

She blushes, partly because the morphine has him kissing her hand with a fervour that's almost comical, but mostly because she's apparently so worn out that the man with the life-threatening injury took note.

"The last 14 hours have been pretty eventful," she admits. "Even by my standards."

"What'd I miss?" He murmurs, rubbing his scruffy jaw into her palm.

She smiles tiredly. "Oh, you know. Tess broke into Watchtower so my shiny new security system trapped us in there. As if that wasn't bad enough, Ms. Mercer had some sort of crazy, biological tracking device _in _her, so Checkmate was closing in on _both _of us and we pretty much had to blow up the Tower to get out. Ended the night off by _killing_ Tess to disable the bug and even though I thought better of it, I brought her back Pulp Fiction style, which is not fun. At all."

His dark eyes blink at her owlishly before he lets out a frustrated sigh. "Tess is such a bitch!"

She can't help but laugh at the blunt assessment and knows not to expect much more from him at the moment. He'll have plenty to say on the matter once he's coherent.

"You're the one who dated her," she teases softly.

"Not anymore," he mumbles, his lips pressing against the pulse in her wrist. "Not for a long time."

She feels her cheeks warming. "You need to rest."

The suggestion alone is all it takes to get his eyes drooping drowsily. Sneaking her hand out of his grasp, she fusses over his covers, tucking the material against him.

"You'll stay?" He asks sleepily, his eyes already drifting shut.

She stills, Tess's words rolling through her mind.

Leaning forward, she presses a gentle kiss to his lips. "Yeah, I'll stay."

* * *

**The truth we speak between the sheets**

His bedroom is dark and still and they're tangled together under a twisted sheet. There's no cuddling or petting, but they do hold each other – tightly.

"Do you see any of this working out?"

They're so close that her lips dance against his collarbone when she whispers the question.

"The world saving?" He breathes into her ear, "or us?"

He's stalling and she knows it's because his real answer is the same one she keeps going back to; neither one of them wants to admit that _I don't know _is all they've got.

"Either," she shrugs. "Both."

"Having a crisis of faith?" He teases and she can't be sure if her hope is renewed or smothered by his avoidance.

"All the time," she tells him honestly, without hesitation.

It doesn't seem possible, but she's able to keep breathing even though his grip on her goes from tight to crushing.


End file.
